


12 Days of Fatlock (And More)

by FatlockFills



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Eventual Smut, Fatlock, Feeder/Feedee, Humiliation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain, chub love, fat appreciation, fat kink, feedee, feeder, wg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5349689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatlockFills/pseuds/FatlockFills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow seven-lbs.tumblr.com's list of "12 Days of Fatlock". Johnlock mutual weight gain told in tiny snippets. One continuous story (except maybe one or two AUs if one day doesn't fit the trend). Collected drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Totally oblivious WG

It’s impossible to say when it started, just like it’s impossible to say which bite of food was over the line of what his body needed to stay functional. Then, what it needed to maintain itself. Every bite after that? Purely indulgence. 

John noticed it first–it was impossible not to when you live with someone, so close, watching the day to day intricacies of their life unfold. Watching dinners follow lunches follow breakfasts and snacks get thrown in. Watching the day Sherlock flopped back on the sofa and John noticed, for the first time, that there was a delicate rounding beneath his lounging T-shirt. 

John hadn’t known either Holmes brother fat; Mycroft was a frowning, whip-thin man in all his memories. But watching the weight sift down and settle on Sherlock’s frame like tiny drifts of newly fallen snow made him wonder if the Holmes genes were a little more inclined to be chubby than not. 

As the holidays loomed on the horizon and Sherlock started taking half and half instead of milk in his tea, John wondered that more and more.


	2. 2. Totally intentional WG

Sherlock’s ever so slowly increasing weight was a sticking point of fascination with John. Yes, he was a doctor. He’d worried about Sherlock’s erratic (at best) eating habits before, but he really hadn’t been in much of a position to say anything. He was catching an apple for two meals a day before Sherlock, as often as not, though part of that was a budget issue. Not all of it, though. 

But he liked to think that he knew his friend’s patterns as well as he knew the shift of the seasons. This was an aberration that he couldn’t immediately attribute to any specific cause. Sherlock didn’t eat, he didn’t, he didn’t–and now he did. He was. Almost constantly. 

John started cooking. 

Sherlock kept eating.

And John couldn’t put something succulent into his mouth without picturing the detective doing the same. He couldn’t hold a flavor on his tongue without speculating what the addition of Sherlock’s lips would bring to eat, and goodness knew that Sherlock was giving him ample fodder for his imagination. Little sighs, grunts, almost inaudible breathy moans as he ate–moments that John wanted to conjure up again and again. 

He’d lost a lot of muscle mass thanks to getting shot. Recovery wasted him away a bit, and he’d put on a portion of weight lost in fat. He was stocky, but not fat–not even plump, not really, but in the weeks where Sherlock continued to eat and John found more and more reasons to keep a platter of snacks between them, the soft, tiny tum he’d carried since his recovery began to blossom just a little. Press outwards when he wasn’t careful, cause him to have to adjust his trousers when he stood up. 

“You’re letting yourself slide,” Sherlock said one afternoon, as the dim sunlight slanted into 221b and John was just setting the tea tray down between them. 

“Sorry?” John asked. 

“Physically.” Sherlock leaned forward, mixing his tea and half and half. “I just mention because it’s been rather rapid. And if you keep it on, you’re not going to be prepared for that army reunion you were telling me about. February, was it?”

John sat down heavily. “I ought to hit you,” he said. But the inside of his head was fuzzy with static, and a single pulse of warmth that had slid down the front of his (apparently “rather rapid”ly expanding) stomach right to the base of his cock. 

Sherlock shrugged, scooping up an iced biscuit and biting into it. “It would be a form of exercise,” he agreed, his free hand resting comfortably against the swell of his own new belly. 

“Oh piss off,” John said, and took three biscuits himself. Sherlock was sitting there, looking rounder than ever, and telling John that he should exercise–John gulped his tea and excused himself to his bedroom. Radio on, a bit louder than it needed to be. A pillow stuffed into his mouth (just imagine it was a biscuit instead) to muffle his cries. Fantasies or not, this was the first time he’d ever brought himself off to the image of Sherlock indulging–and sneering at him. 

_God,_ he thought, _how much do I have to put on for him to say something again?_


	3. 3. Good-natured teasing

“Really, John? Thirds?”

John nodded as he spooned another ample serving onto his plate. His stomach was round and distended, grumbling at the insistence, but the pink on his cheeks was not from embarrassment. 

–

“Your trousers are getting a bit tight behind.” 

“Why were you looking at my arse?”

It was out before John could do anything about it, and then he laughed too loud and long to cover it. He knew he was getting bigger; he felt the pressure on his waistband when he bent over. He was starting to shift his trousers on his hips so they didn’t pinch so. 

Sherlock shrugged, face a shade rounder, and pushed his bowl of sweets across the table. John helped himself to three. 

–

“It could have happened to anyone, Captain. If they weren’t sure where they fit anymore.” Sherlock’s voice was soothing as he helped John clean up the spilled tea. John was shocked at his help; he’d been expecting nothing of the sort from the detective. Sherlock had warmed to the idea of helping him very recently; it made the words that dripped from Sherlock’s lips sweeter, though no less… exciting. It had been over two weeks since the last comment on his weight, and John had been growing a bit desperate. Knocking Sherlock’s drink over with the rounded potbelly he’d grown had been a ploy. 

“It was an accident,” he fibbed. 

“I expect so. You just don’t have much control anymore,” Sherlock said, and gave John a patronizing couple of pats on the belly. The ripple traveled through weeks of overindulgence to his cock, and John had to excuse himself again. 

If this is what clumsiness got him, it was going to be Sherlock’s laptop next time.


	4. 4. Lazing Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12 Days of Fatlock: Day 4  
> 4\. Lazing around 
> 
> AKA, where I got tired of them not being together

John was so busy with his own explorations that he didn’t turn his mind back to the original issue for quite some time. As delightful as Sherlock’s attentions were (in a weird way, like there was a knife turning in his belly but also he was getting hard, just, better not to think of it too much) the original issue had been Sherlock’s gain in the first place. 

John didn’t know what had happened, but suddenly Sherlock was putting on weight, and the only change to his routine that John could figure out was that Sherlock was eating now. He didn’t do anything else differently; he still lazed around the flat for days at a time. When he did go out, it was never to work out. He might stretch his legs if he was simply too restless to stay outside, but it was an amble, not a jog. 

He did experiments at the same rate, took as many cases, and he still gave up eating when the leads were hot, but if they weren’t he’d take three biscuits with his tea. John watched Sherlock work his way through a shopping trip’s worth of food in three days, stretching back on the sofa after an afternoon spent in his sleepwear and noticing that even the forgiving sleeves on Sherlock’s favorite shirts were getting tight. The detective was filling out all over, from thicker thighs that pressed the seams of his old, slim trousers to the limits to his arms, upper arms growing softer and fatter by the lazy day. 

John let his belt out another notch during a particular dry spell on the investigation front. He’d begun getting comments at work. Not many, but he knew he was going to have to find some better fitting clothes soon, so he didn’t draw unwanted attention to his recent gain. “A bit of the holiday spirit sticking around?” someone at the surgery had quipped, and he’d laughed, and retreated to the exam room as soon as he could. 

“Going to the shops, want to come?” he asked, one hand on the door. 

Sherlock didn’t so much as twitch. “Ordered a delivery. I have to wait for it.” 

“Well, save me some,” John said. He left the house. It took a bit of searching to find what he wanted; flattering clothes in his size and the same styles in a few sizes up, so it wouldn’t be as noticable that he didn’t intend to get his holiday pudge under control. By the time he came back, it was over three hours since he’d left, and he had a bulging shopping bag to carry upstairs. 

He paused in the living room, panting lightly from the exertion, and found Sherlock asleep on the sofa. Delivery boxes scattered around him. He snored lightly, on his back, one hand hanging over the side of the couch. The other rested on his body; his thumb was tucked into the waistband of his sleep trousers. He’d dragged them down, over his hips, but beneath the swollen curve of his belly. 

John licked his lips. Sherlock looked flushed, even in sleep. His face was still flecked with a crumb in the corner of his mouth. Framed as it was by his trousers below and the shirt above, Sherlock’s stomach looked exceptionally round. There were faint splotches and stretch marks around his navel. He’d grown a thick paunch. John was sure that if Sherlock were on his feet that layer of fat on his lower belly would actually sag. 

“Going to just stare, Doctor?” 

John jumped, his heart in his throat, and he realized that Sherlock’s snoring had ceased; he was awake, looking at John through half open eyes. “No,” John finally said. 

“Mm. Going to tell me I shouldn’t do this?” Sherlock tried to sit up and failed–his abs let him down, and he lay back down on the sofa for an instant. When he tried the second time he grabbed the back of the sofa and pulled himself up; he put one hand to the side of his swollen belly after, ruefully rubbing the mass that, John saw with a thrill of satisfaction, did indeed sag into Sherlock’s lap a precious inch or two. 

“No,” John said, leaving his shopping where it was. He crossed to the sofa, looking down at Sherlock. “Do you want a hand up to your room, though?”

“I can stand, John.”

“You couldn’t sit up,” John shot back. 

“Touche.” Sherlock leaned over, his legs parting so his belly could sit between them. Another twenty or thirty pounds and it would sag between them instead; John could already imagine it. Sherlock snagged one last container, and popped open a dozen cold potstickers. 

“Did you order Indian and Chinese?”

“I was still hungry.” Sherlock popped a dumpling into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. He sighed and leaned back, stomach oozing out before him, looking content and fat–really fat, for the first time just [i]fat[/i], past plump, fat and stuffing himself full of rich, fried, fattening foods that were going to go straight to his strained belly, thick thighs, and the first hints of a double chin. 

John made a noncommittal noise and sat down next to him, the sofa dipping under their combined weight. John slid against Sherlock at the bottom of the curve. Sherlock noticed; he glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. “Can’t I do anything without you copying me?” he asked, and tugged John’s shirt up. 

What had been abs rounded outwards: a fat potbelly, the sole property of Captain John H. Watson. Sherlock handed John the container. “And to think I’ve been hogging all the snacks.” 

John ate one cold dumpling, then another, and Sherlock picked up the phone. “Yes, delivery order for 221b. Yes, another. Do you still have the last order–yes, another of the same. See you in half an hour.” 

“You can’t still be hungry,” John objected. He spoke with his mouth full, and when he swallowed he reached for a napkin to dab the rich broth like juice from his lips. Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder arrested him. 

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock said. “But I think you are.” He leaned in, and John’s heart jumped to his throat, and–he felt the kiss all over his body, a frisson of tension, of nerve endings firing without stimulus, just intense reaction. 

John felt Sherlock’s hands on his trousers, and he pulled back–that was moving too quick, even for this, even for this thing that felt so right and yet hadn’t been something he’d really allowed himself to see as a possibility–but Sherlock stopped as well. All he’d done was push John’s trousers down so they too rested beneath the curve of his belly. They were mirror images, one fatter and stuffed, one empty–but still significantly round. 

“Come now. We have the whole afternoon, and you’ve already been out to buy larger trousers.” Sherlock’s hand was warm where it rested against John’s stomach; his fingers, still thin despite his rapid weight gain, sunk into the soft flesh and made John shiver. “Let’s make it worth it, why don’t we?”


	5. 5. Retirement WG

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. Retirement WG
> 
> Sherlock and John aren't quite ready for retirement, but it is on the horizon for someone they know...

“Why are you frowning at your phone?” John asked. 

Sherlock huffed and tossed his phone aside. It skid off the edge of the coffee table and bounced on the carpet. John picked it up and put it back. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, like that explained everything. After a pause, he continued, “He told me to get any treasons out of my system in the next five years, because he’s preparing for retirement.” 

“Retirement?” John frowned. “He’s a bit young, isn’t he? I didn’t think he’d let power out of his hands until he died of aneurism.” 

“Old age contains the possibility of losing. Mycroft is always one to quit while his record is still in the good; he doesn’t do losing. But he will. The fact that his job requires near monthly physicals is the only reason he’s stuck to the latest diet. Mark my words: a year after he retires, he’s going to be as fat as a hog.” Sherlock blew out a huffing breath and slumped deeper on the couch. His sulk was a bit altered, these days. John smirked at the sight of Sherlock, sulking drawing attention to his double chin and the way his fleshy hip stuck out over the edge of the couch by just a smidge. 

“I don’t think you can mock Mycroft about his weight ever again.”

An arched eyebrow. “Why not?”

John barked a laugh, and bent over. He poked Sherlock in the side of his ample belly. “Because of this.” The poke turned into a caress. His hand slipped down to the base of Sherlock’s paunch, pinching the bulge of the roll beneath his navel and shaking it lightly to illustrate how fat Sherlock was getting. The detective inspect yawned, arching his back, and incidentally puffing his stomach out as he did so. 

“Of course I can still make fun of Mycroft. He’s fat because he’s not in control of his life. He loves food and hates himself for eating it, and I can remind him that he’s not the perfect model of self-control after all.”

“And you’re in control of your life,” John said. It wasn’t quite a question.

Sherlock smirked. “I am entirely in control of my life. I’m exactly who I want to be. Fetch me the ice cream from the freezer, would you? No bowl, just a spoon.”


End file.
